


Just a single line in history (half-crossed out)

by strawberriesandtophats



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:01:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26443834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberriesandtophats/pseuds/strawberriesandtophats
Summary: For the prompt: fic in which Armand realises that Jean is aging.
Relationships: Armand Jean du Plessis de Richelieu/de Tréville (Trois Mousquetaires)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 43





	Just a single line in history (half-crossed out)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [grabmotte](https://archiveofourown.org/users/grabmotte/gifts).



It only took a moment for chaos to disturb the carefully curated peace inside, like a boulder thrown into a serene lake.

Light footsteps in the hallway of the Louvre stopped as if dead. Then there was a crash, and then another one. And screaming, in a country accent so thick that Richelieu did not understand a word of it.

The king looked bewildered; the Musketeers rattled as they all stopped walking.

Treville was eerily calm, only turning around when the silence reigned in the hallway, his hand resting on his sword. The Musketeers themselves practically spun like dancers, already walking towards that hallway as Treville took his place in front of the king himself.

And it was the visual of how slowly he moved in comparison that unraveled the Cardinal like a woolen blanket. Treville’s head har jerked to the side, using the ear that had not been damaged in God knew how many fights. His hand gripping the sword, his eyes alert as he stepped closer to where Louis was seated.

Not that Treville was not as fit as it was possible for him to be, but with every second that passed, Richelieu could see how Captain Treville was standing utterly still and ordering his men around, making himself into a shield instead of a sword.

Because he knew that he could not be one any longer.

“Better that the arrows hit me instead of his majesty,” Treville had once joked, his lips against Richelieu’s bare skin. “Better that someone impale me with their sword.”

His calloused hands had been on Richelieu’s bony hips, strong and present and capable of killing him any second.

At the time, Richelieu had not thought much of what had been said, just that Treville was keen to do his duty to protect the king, to protect France. As he should be, as the Captain of the Musketeers. Still too engulfed by the afterglow of sex, he’d just traced the deepest scars on Treville’s arm before pulling away and trying to make his curls look somewhat presentable.

Treville had laughed at his attempt, fetching his hat from the floor.

Richelieu was used to thinking of Treville as being young and healthy, especially in comparison to himself, someone that could never take a good day for granted. He was used to the smell of sweat and horseshit and leather that always clung to him, barely hidden by good soap.

He thought of the clear vitality in how he ducked his head to hide his smile, how long his stride was when they followed the king, how natural and easy he looked in the saddle.

That man was so alive.

He was so fucking alive.

Treville did not complain about how the training got more difficult by the week, only mentioned that some of his old wounds and injuries were very accurate when it came to telling him what the weather was going to be like.

And that was usually at the very darkest time of night, when their limbs were still entangled and breathing hard. He’d usually make a joke of it, or just wince when he moved in a way that wasn’t a good idea anymore.

Treville had chosen his legacy.

It was how well he trained his Musketeers, how he advised the king, how he fought tooth and nail with Richelieu in the daytime and fucked him in the night. He was a still-living memory of how one person might do their best to make the world better, and sometimes worse.

No one could control their narrative, try as they might.

Perhaps living was enough, if you did it the best you could.

“Go and investigate what is going on,” Treville told his men, his voice hard and calculating. “I’ll stay with the king.”

They nodded, already on their way.

Treville’s eyes met Richelieu’s eyes, nodding at him as if to communicate that he knew perfectly well that the Cardinal had several knives on his person and would stab their attacker through the heart before he could ever get to the king. That he trusted him to do that, were Treville too slow to dodge, to see the blade coming.

Just a heap on the floor, in a pool of his own blood.

The yawning abyss of horror that came with that realization, taking in the silver in Treville’s beard and the crow’s feet around his eyes, threatened to engulf Richelieu, if only for a matter of moments. He willed himself not to look at Treville’s arm, that had been broken because of his own foolishness.

“Sir-“ one of the Musketeers said, big and stubborn-looking. The sort that could lift a horse with one hand.

“We will both stay with the king,” Richelieu told the Musketeers, which had all halted in their steps, watching the two of them uneasily. They did that often these days, not knowing what to do with the lack of fighting going on between them. “Go on, all of you.”

The youngest one opened his mouth, as if to argue that he did not obey the Cardinal’s orders. He closed it again when he’d glanced at Treville, who made an impatient sound.

Richelieu stared at the Musketeers until they had started wondering if they’d accidentally been transported to hell, and if not, spending too much time in an enclosed space with the Cardinal was far too close to it.

They left, their footsteps fading.

“A false alarm, I think,” Treville confided in them both. “A servant has dropped a kettle and some cups.”

Richelieu glared at him.

“You understood what they were shouting about?” he demanded. “And it was about tea?”

Treville only raised his chin in response to the glare, the way that he straightened up and adjusted his grip on his hat was a promise that he’d shove Richelieu up against a wall later on, if he wanted a fight. Or other things.

“And yet you sent them outside?” Louis asked, standing up.

“Well, it might have been because someone wanted to create a distraction, intending to do you harm,” he told Louis with the air of a seasoned soldier that has seen some shit. “Or someone disguised as a poorly trained servant.”

“At least you have trained them in how to clean up messes,” Richelieu shot back. “They must be used to it by now.”

“But that was not the only reason you sent them away, was it?” the king asked.

“There are some things that they should not overhear,” Treville said, flashing Richelieu the sort of radiant smile that made him feel far younger than his years. “As much as I don’t like to admit it, his Eminence is right that they are prone to gossiping among themselves. Like to get into trouble, too.”

“You did mention that you wanted to speak to us in private, your majesty,” Richelieu said, trying not to show that he was not immune to that smile.

He was sure that he failed, because Treville looked damn pleased with himself.

“Indeed,” Louis said, as if he’d just remembered. “I did.”

Richelieu stepped closer to Treville.

They still had time, it was just as well that they use it well.


End file.
